kernels will be delivered whole, and I know how the nuts, taken in
conjunction with winter apples, cider and doughnuts, make old people's
tales and old jokes sound fresh and crisp and enchanting, and juggle an
evening away before you know what went with the time. I know the look of
Uncle Dan'l's kitchen as it was on privileged nights when I was a child,
and I can see the white and black children grouped on the hearth, with
the firelight playing on their faces and the shadows flickering upon the
walls, clear back toward the cavernous gloom of the rear, and I can hear
Uncle Dan'l telling the immortal tales which Uncle Remus Harris was to
gather into his books and charm the world with, by and by; and I can
feel again the creepy joy which quivered through me when the time for
the ghost-story of the "Golden Arm" was reached--and the sense of
regret, too, which came over me, for it was always the last story of the
evening, and there was nothing between it and the unwelcome bed.

I can remember the bare wooden stairway in my uncle's house, and the
turn to the left above the landing, and the rafters and the slanting
roof over my bed, and the squares of moonlight on the floor, and the
white cold world of snow outside, seen through the curtainless window.
I can remember the howling of the wind and the quaking of the house on
stormy nights, and how snug and cozy one felt, under the blankets,
listening, and how the powdery snow used to sift in, around the sashes,
and lie in little ridges on the floor, and make the place look chilly in
the morning, and curb the wild desire to get up--in case there was any.
I can remember how very dark that room was, in the dark of the moon, and
how packed it was with ghostly stillness when one woke up by accident
away in the night, and forgotten sins came flocking out of the secret
chambers of the memory and wanted a hearing; and how ill chosen the time
seemed for this kind of business; and how dismal was the hoo-hooing of
the owl and the wailing of the wolf, sent mourning by on the night wind.

I remember the raging of the rain on that roof, summer nights, and how
pleasant it was to lie and listen to it, and enjoy the white splendor of
the lightning and the majestic booming and crashing of the thunder. It
was a very satisfactory room; and there was a lightning-rod which was
reachable from the window, an adorable and skittish thing to climb up
and down, summer nights, when there were duties on hand